a charlatan with best intentions

beneath the overhung silver of the birch strewn gulch,
there seeded the brawny moss that gulfed our spray;
there beneath the ferns that craved a sense of metal
we separated the vanilla branches whose swollen pods
encouraged the enshrined urn of verdigris towards burn:

there in the sinuous incense grasp of smoky fingers
we became the zombies of the lily rites of spring
and took no fear from the pinch of fervent buds
or the reverential hard caress of a haunch gone astray:
a scarlet preparation for the harvest yet to come.